


My Empire of Dirt

by AvaCelt



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Ultimate Spider-Man (Cartoon)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, References to Depression, References to Drugs, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-25
Updated: 2014-09-25
Packaged: 2018-02-18 17:22:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2356409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaCelt/pseuds/AvaCelt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve sees that people want to save Peter Parker, but how, when Spider-Man keeps wanting to die for Harry Osborn?</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Empire of Dirt

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Nine Inch Nail's "Hurt."
> 
> This is a weird, romantic, mostly headcanon-pro kind of fic. I don't know precisely where the idea came from, but I'm guessing that three rounds of CA: tWS and USM season two finale can do that to a person. I have no clue what's going on in other Avengers media but the movies and the comics, so there are cameos and jokes from the most random series out there. I don't know why I thought the SteveBucky pairing from the movies would be a good parallel to USM's Parksborn, but I did. It seems to have worked out.
> 
> tl;dr: Peter and Harry together from the Ultimate Spider-Man cartoon is probably the best rendition of the Parksborn friendship, outside of the 616 comics. But since USM is too lazy to make my OTP happen, I've deemed Steve Rogers as an appropriate substitute. And Bucky. Enjoy.

It was never Steve’s intention to figure out Spider-Man’s secret identity. It just so happened that Bucky was out of town on business that week, and Namor had whisked Jim away on their umpteenth honeymoon. So no, it was absolutely, positively  _not_ Steve’s fault that while Bucky was packing his belongings for a two-week conference out in Albuquerque, he was texting Nick for an easy-peasy mission to wait out his husband’s entirely too-long business trip.

Steve assumed he would be getting placed in the soup kitchen for homeless mutant youth on the Bowery. He’d done it a hundred other times on other lonesome days when he wasn’t on Avengers duty and Bucky was leaving for work-related purposes, so this time shouldn’t have been any different. But surprisingly, Nick asked him to do surveillance and Steve had assumed that maybe there was a troubled youth in the soup kitchen. Perhaps Nick wanted him to go speak to the teen and maybe coax him or her over to the S.H.I.E.L.D side.

But Spider-Man? Steve is hesitant to admit he didn’t factor the young man into his assertions.

But Spider-Man it was, and Steve was asked to do it plain-clothed, and so Steve did it plain-clothed for seven hours a week, one hour a day, and it just so happened that on a Thursday evening in the first week of Bucky’s departure, Steve had caught a suspicious looking young man in a lavender shirt emerge from a bathroom in a bodega Steve swore no one was in moments before Spider-Man had entered through a broken window.

He’d assumed the young man had gone in for a cream soda after a long afternoon of hero’ing.

He had no idea Peter Parker was the one in need of the cream soda instead.

Steve had then grabbed an extra carton of milk, purchased his dinner items, and politely shuffled out of the foodmart and back to his empty apartment. In all honestly, he shouldn’t have been surprised that the young man’s identity would come to light  _some_  time during his one-hour check-ins (because they really were just check-ins,  _not_ because there was a hit out on Spider-Man’s name, a hit that could be carried out by the likes of Daken). And so for the rest of the week, Steve did as he was asked, and even looked forward to the last week of surveying before a junior agent took over and Steve finally got his husband back.

But that was before Steve found out about Harry Osborn.

* * *

 

Mornings were for running. They were for punching a few bags, saying hello to neighbors, making breakfast, and then indulging in said breakfast before a long, honest day at work. Mornings were for beginnings.

Monday morning in Steve’s apartment ended before it even began.

Ben Urich’s article was front page that morning, and as much as it pleased him to see his friend’s name, what he did not enjoy was seeing a lie in place of the truth.

**SPIDER-MAN NUMBER ONE SUSPECT IN THE MURDER OF OSCORP FOUNDER? DAILY BUGLE COMMUNICATIONS INVESTIGATES.**

Norman Osborn had been declared dead after officers of the ninth precinct found pieces of his body floating in the East River. Norman Osborn, the short-lived Iron Patriot, had found his peace in the murky waters of a toxic waste dump, but even the noxious stew of the river couldn’t do away with the webbing encrusted in the grooves of his torn flesh.

Norman Osborn was imprisoned in a bio-cell on the S.H.I.E.L.D helicarrier.

Yet, Norman Osborn was dead.

Steve’s fingers had never dialed Nick’s number as fast as they did that morning.

* * *

 

If Bucky were here, he’d punch in faces, and tear down cement walls, but he’s not. Bucky was in Albuquerque at a mechanics’ conference, and he hadn’t punched a guy in months, much less encountered cement walls worth tearing down. No. Bucky was in Albuquerque, away at a conference purchasing odds and ends for his and Jim’s auto bodyshop on the outskirts of Coney Island.

And Steve? Steve was at his wits end.

He wanted to go up to J. Jonah Jameson and tell him to take down the slanderous article. He wanted to give Ben a call and tell him that the kid was innocent, and that Norman was alive and in a sensitive location, and that no, this poor kid was not at fault for the chunks of flesh torn out of Norman’s body during his struggle with S.H.I.E.L.D.

But Steve couldn’t, because then that would mean Spider-Man would have to explain himself, and worse, Harry Osborn would be devastated.

And that meant Peter Parker would have to suffer.

Steve had read some of the files, read the endless suicide missions Spider-Man,  _Peter,_  had partaken in to protect his best friend, his sworn enemy’s only child. 75% of the rescue missions were unauthorized, the remaining quarter tentative and signed into existence only because Nick didn’t have any other choice. But even then, Steve had only gone over the files available to all S.H.I.E.L.D staff, and not the ones hidden away from both him and Carol.

Monday afternoon prompted Steve to call up Dum-Dum. They ordered black coffee and poured over every report they could find on the events pertaining to the Web-Slinger and the heir to Oscorp. Carnage? Steve had only heard the name drift in and out of focus in the S.H.I.E.L.D cafeteria on a helicarrier hovering over Portland, and yet, in a classified file Dum-Dum managed wrestle away from a simpering male secretary, it said that  _Peter_ was Carnage. Steve had allowed worn fingers to trail over a grainy photograph captured during the struggle in the Oscorp penthouse. Harry Osborn stood in front of his best friend, unafraid, even as Carnage looked ready to tear him limb from limb.

Steve swallowed the lump in his throat, and carefully read the detailed report of the Carnage incident. According to a mid-level agent, Norman Osborn, driven by his Goblin counterpart, had kidnapped Peter Parker. He’d then turned him into Carnage, because his own son, his actual flesh and blood, was nothing compared to the untapped genius of said son’s best friend. Steve gripped his coffee cup and sneered, and only loosened his hold when he came to the part where it claimed Harry Osborn had been the one to talk down the Carnage, at the expense of becoming Venom’s host again.

So that was what the photograph documented. Steve allowed his eyes to glaze over the Oscorp heir’s determined stance and Carnage’s billowing spikes and snarling tongue.

He continued to read about how the young heir had gone on to team up with Spider-Man to take down the Goblin, but Dum-Dum handed him another file before he could find out the results of the encounter. This time, Spider-Man had to jump in to protect Harry Osborn from Otto Octavius while Norman Osborn was repenting for his mistakes as the Iron Patriot. Steve saw that pizza, elevators, and more Venom symbiotes were involved. He needed to call Reed and ask him to do something about it, simply because it seemed to be at the root of every Spider-Man related problem.

More files, more reports, more eye-witness cases of Spider-Man, of Peter Parker, risking his body and soul for someone who despised Spider-Man, but cared for Peter Parker. Harry Osborn was in more than fifty percent of Spider-Man related activities. Of the Big Five Spider-Man related events, Harry Osborn was at the center of three.

Dum-Dum dug out the last of the filed accounts, a surveillance report by a junior agent, drafted after S.H.I.E.L.D cleared after-hours spying. The former soldier’s S.H.I.E.L.D phone buzzed, and Steve took the file while the man took his call.

It was on a rooftop forty floors from the ground, Spider-Man slinging down to meet Harry Osborn stooped over a ledge and watching the city go by. Harry Osborn had yelled at Spider-Man, and as per usual, it seemed, Spider-Man had tried to explain his actions and ultimately failed. Spider-Man had spoken words of encouragement, words that detailed just how sorry he was, words that Steve remembered someone from his past muttering over and over again. And then Harry Osborn had said his last piece and walked away. And Spider-Man? Spider-Man had continued to stand there, long after Harry Osborn retired to his home.

Dum-Dum quietly put his phone away and poured him another cup of coffee. Steve’s watch said it was past nine. There were no more paper or online files to leaf through, no more eye-witness accounts, no more photographs of the Web-Slinger and Harry Osborn. Steve wondered what Peter was doing right now.

“Sleeping off a fourteen hour patrol,” Dum-Dum grumbled, as if reading his mind, handing him the live online reports of the S.H.I.E.L.D agent currently on duty outside the Parker residence.

“And Harry Osborn?”

Dum-Dum sighed and took a long drink of the black liquid. “That’ll be in tomorrow’s newspapers.”

Steve quirked an eyebrow. “Something you’re not telling me?”

Dum-Dum scoffed. “Fury has it hush-hush for now.”

“Has what hush-hush?” Steve asked softly.

“Harry Osborn’s in the hospital again.” Dum-Dum stated, his eyes steady. Steve doesn’t even have to think to know the next part. “And Peter Parker doesn’t know.”

But he would the following morning. Steve stared guiltily down at the StarkPad issuing the latest piece of intel on the Parker residence- May Parker was standing outside Peter Parker’s room and crying softly on the phone with Norman’s secretary and Harry’s temporary caretaker. According to Dum-Dum’s phone call, it was made from a private room at Lenox Hill’s psych ward.

* * *

 

It wasn’t a suicide attempt, Dum-Dum assured him during their breakfast run Tuesday morning. The kid had finally managed to get the liquor cabinet open, had gotten smashed, and then went through a glass door because he was too drunk to hold together his own weight. He was shifted from the psych ward to the general ward sometime in the wee hours of the morning while Steve was snoozing on a hard cot in the supply closet he’d taken over on the helicarrier hovering above Manhattan.

The kid had twenty-two stitches, a broken arm, and a sprained ankle. He had his stomach pumped earlier, and already half of Midtown High was gushing over the fallen prince’s prone form. Dum-Dum chuckled about how despite the well wishes, no one was actually let  _inside_  the room, so the kids were milling in the hallway until courtesy hour was up and school bells rang in the distance.

Sometime between Steve’s shower and a polite conversation with Namor on the phone, Harry Osborn had woken up.

And Peter Parker? Peter was still sleeping and May Parker had taken the day off to cook Peter’s favorite. Steve had already decided he was going to be part of Peter’s support system, secret identities be damned, so before noon, he said his goodbyes to Dum-Dum, and dived down to land on Stark Tower’s rooftop. He changed into his civilian clothes in another supply closet before taking the elevator down to the exit, and catching the train to Peter’s neighborhood.

He waited outside as the designated S.H.I.E.L.D agent of the day, this time disguised as an Oscorp employee, went to call on the Parker household while Steve whistled and kept his head down next to a street sign stationed around the corner. In a record-breaking six minutes, a frenzied Peter Parker bolted out of his front door, the S.H.I.E.L.D junior agent frantically tearing after him.

Steve had given his signal when the agent was close enough, and then tore after Peter himself. He was fast, Steve would admit, but not as fast as Steve. Before Peter could make a sound, Steve pulled him to a stop and firmly embraced him. It took maybe three seconds for the Midtown High student to realize that the guy in the baseball cap and glasses was Captain America and  _not_  a super strong drunkard.

But Steve saw that Peter had hardened immediately after, had decided against feeling two emotions, each on the opposite spectrum. He saw relief, relief that Captain America cared for the puny spider, and anger, anger that asked why Steve meddled in his private business, confronted him without their costumes, slacked on the only stipulation he ever asked of S.H.I.E.L.D. Steve felt something akin to shame, but Peter didn’t seem to have the time nor the patience. The young man nodded, and with lightening speed, returned to running to the nearest subway station with Steve trailing behind him.

The train took them to the upper east side, and when they arrived at the station, Peter and Steve ran the rest of the way to the hospital. They uttered not one word to each other the entire way there.

* * *

 

“You shouldn’t have intervened,” Bucky scolded him firmly.

Steve sighed and fingered store-brand crayons strewn on the coffee table as Peter and Harry Osborn continued their shouting match. “I thought I was doing the right thing,” he murmured listlessly.

“He never showed you his face for a reason. You of all people should know how crucial any semblance of privacy is.”

Steve winced at the harsh words, a horn accompanying Bucky’s subsequent breathing.

“I have to go now.” Buck clipped, and Steve could hear the show tunes in the background, signaling the end of one bid and the commencement of another.

Steve whispered his goodbyes and heard Bucky grunt in response before the line went dead. He guiltily put his phone away, and scribbled morosely on the back of a magazine as the cacophony upped in volume.

A nurse rustled over to the Oscorp heir’s temporary caretaker, a man in his early forties sporting thinning blonde hair and a harried look.

“If your guest can’t behave himself, then I won’t hesitate to call up security,” she warned as Steve heard Peter thunder expletives at his bedridden classmate. The nurse looked less mortified at the noise and more triumphant now that Norman Osborn’s secretary was making a move to go inside the room.

Steve was quicker, so he got to the door faster. “Let me,” he pleaded, and the red-faced man nodded quickly before stepping aside. The nurse threw a piercing glare Steve’s way before he entered and quietly closed the door behind him. Bless Stark tech for holographically shaping his face into looking like an average New Yorker who just happened to accompany Peter Parker to his best friend’s hospital bed. Unfortunately, Peter’s eyes were the only one the hologram wasn’t supposed to fool.

His entry seemed to have prompted a ceasefire between the two. Peter was turned away from the hospital bed, his head resting in the crook of an arm he had propped up against the pale blue plaster of the wall. Both hands were clenched into a fists, flexing periodically as Peter attempted to get his breathing under control.

Steve made the mistake of turning to look at Harry Osborn at that second. If he’d waited another thirty seconds, maybe patted Peter’s shoulder instead of bothering with the teen hooked up to the IV drip, he wouldn’t have seen the red eyes and the tears streaming down his face, soaking the band aids and gauze covering bruises and stitches. Steve stared wide-eyed at the teenager whose face was riddled with faint specks of blood and globs of snot. He moved to hand him a tissue from the dispenser on the bedside table, but the young man didn’t seem to notice his presence.

No. His wet eyes were on Peter, and Peter was turned away from him, heaving quietly against the wall. Steve left the tissue next to Harry Osborn’s good arm, and then shuffled over to rest his hand on Peter’s shoulder. Peter looked up, his eyes ablaze with a rage akin to something Steve had witnessed in someone else’s eyes so many years ago.

“I’m ready to go.” Peter ground through his teeth, and Steve heard a faint sniffle behind him. He took time to look into Peter’s eyes as the young man took deep breaths, seemingly untouched by the auburn haired teen quietly sobbing behind them.

Just that second, Mary Jane Watson stepped in. Steve took one look at the shaking girl, and looked back to Peter. He proceeded to give the three some time alone, but Peter simply nodded to the newcomer and barged out. Steve followed, but not before looking back one last time at the sad eyes of Daily Bugle Communications’ newest intern.

* * *

 

“He could have gotten himself killed! He’s never drunk a drop of alcohol ever before! What did he  _think_  four bottles of wine in less than an hour would do?”

“His father was declared dead and he had no one to turn to.”

“That doesn’t mean he can pump himself full of poison and then crash through a glass door!”

“You’re not thinking strai-”

“No, I’m thinking just fine! He should have known better. He should have called me, or MJ, or Mr. Osborn’s secretary. He didn’t have to hurt himself!”

“But you were asleep, and Norman Osborn’s secretary was too busy covering up all the other dirty secrets Norman had hidden in his hard drive. This one’s on the kid, Spider-Man. It’s not your place to get involved.” Nick folded his arms over his broad chest. Steve didn’t have to be a genius to figure out Nick had followed him up to Tony’s rooftop while Peter took to the alley to change into his costume before climbing up.

“It would have helped if you’d kept my name out of the papers!” Spider-Man yelled, and it was not often that people, especially teenagers, got away with raising their voice at Nicholas Fury and lived to tell the tale without a bullet somewhere in their body.

“We have casualties, sometimes in the form of actual deaths, and sometimes in the form of character assassination.” Nick glared at the young hero with his one good eye. “Did you think your relationship with Osborn’s son was going to remain untouched just because you happened to work for me? Ask yourself how many times I’ve had my people swoop in to save him and his foolish father just so  _you_  could sleep easy. Then ask yourself how many times my agents made sure to not only protect Spider-Man, but also the man underneath the suit. Afterwards, I want you think about why I bother to help keep your  _name_  out of the papers when you’ve made it so damn easy-” Nick threw his hands up and pointed at the sky, “-for them to find it. Thinking, Spider-Man? After you’re done breathing on those questions, I’d like you to think about why the NYPD isn’t banging on S.H.I.E.L.D’s door when one of their top agents is being accused of  _murder_? Have you gotten it through your thick skull, or do I have to keep going?”

It should be noted that Nick did not, in fact, keep going, because before Steve could open his mouth to assuage the quietly seething director, Spider-Man had activated his web shooters and disappeared from their sight. That in itself calmed Nick down rather well.

* * *

 

On Wednesday afternoon Namor knocked on his door just once before letting himself in. The older man looked as magnificently bored as he usually did, but at least he had pastries and fresh coffee this time. Steve muttered an inaudible ‘hello,’ and returned to his paperwork.

Dum-Dum was no gossip queen to S.H.I.E.L.D staff, but the Commandos and the Invaders had their own info vine, and if Dum-Dum hadn’t texted Namor, then Bucky probably grumbled something to Jim over Skype beers. Steve felt his heart pang. Bucky was supposed to share Skype beers with him later in the week, but after the conversation in the hospital, he doubted his husband wanted to speak to him this soon.

Namor kept his eyes on the book he’s brought with him, but not before sliding over Steve’s cup of coffee and opening up the large box of jasmine tea eclairs.

They sat in comfortable silence while Steve absently found himself drifting back to Peter and Harry.

* * *

 

“NYPD’s closed its short-lived investigation on Spider-Man, but I doubt Jameson will stop his smear campaign.” Ben Urich took another cream puff and popped it into his mouth before offering Steve the half-eaten plate. He politely refused.

“As long as you can keep murder, kidnap, and the Oscorp name out of it.”

Ben shrugged, taking a long swig of his lukewarm coffee. “Murder and kidnap I can control, but Oscorp? That’s out of my hands.” He pulled out a small notepad and flipped to a page scrawled with red and purple ink. “Jameson’s set up his own taskforce to get to the bottom of what really pushed someone into tossing pieces of Osborn into the East River. So far, that proposed someone is Spider-Man, and no amount of fiddling, connections, and free coffee is gonna stop Jameson from putting his nose where it doesn’t belong and continue to publish what you refer to as utter nonsense and blatant character assassination.”

“There has to be a way to at least go easy on the the headlines,” he pleaded. Bucky was due back in a few days, and Wednesday night was being spent coaxing his friend into protecting Spider-Man. He even refused cream puffs. Too many things were going wrong at the same time.

“No can do.” Ben finished the cup and ordered another. “You have to understand that he’s already gone public with it. He’s got mutants working for him now, not X-Men mutants, just normal mercenaries and scientists looking to make good money for relatively harmless work. Unless Spider-Man intends to defend himself publicly and arouse NYPD’s suspicions again, Jameson will do what Jameson’s always done- continue to make life a living hell for people he just can’t bring himself to like.”

“But he’s ruining the kid’s life!” He bellowed almost as loudly as Thor, and if it hadn’t been for the fact that they were seated in a relatively obscure and unpacked eatery in Bedford-Stuyvesant, outsiders would have begun snooping.

Ben didn’t even flinch. “You know who he is,” he said matter-of-factly, “and you’re trying to protect him. Not that I’m surprised, but why Spider-Man?” Ben put his elbows on the rickety table and put his chin atop folded hands. “Why does Spider-Man matter? He’s not the first kid to get mixed up in stupid political shit while trying to do the right thing. Katherine Ann Pryde was on S.H.I.E.L.D’s watch list for years, even after taking a literal bullet for the world. It’s a part of hero’ing.”

“Kitty Pryde had Scott Summers and the rest of the X-Men on her side,” Steve replied firmly.

“And Spider-Man has Captain America. But tell me this- whose side is Steve Rogers on?”

When Steve and Ben parted that evening, Peter Parker was never, not once uttered. But somewhere along the way, Ben had picked up enough to figure it out on his own.

Steve did it for Peter, Bucky’s wrath be damned.

* * *

 

The Wolverine was back in town, and there wasn’t any mutant causing enough of a problem to merit a visit from the man wielding six admantium laced claws and beer-riddled breath. That either meant the X-Men were giving out holidays, and Logan had nothing better to do than to return to the city to drink and brood in his dingy apartment, or that there was a personal problem the Wolverine needed time alone to handle.

Clearly it was the second, because Daken was in the news the next day.

**FEARED MUTANT WARLORD HAILING FROM THE EAST TAKES UP HIS MASK ONCE MORE.**

Jameson wasn’t joking when he said “warlord.” He knew of Daken, knew of the things he did in Madripoor, of the types he mingled with. But the Wolverine? The Wolverine hardly bothered with his son unless there was something severely wrong with their unspoken agreement to leave each other be. Last Steve heard, Akihiro was sleeping with an actor and part-time sociopath in California and addicted to a new drug on the market. He’d heard from the general S.H.I.E.L.D gossip vine that even the Runaways had managed to get involved with the Mohawk-toting mutant.

But what was he doing in New York City? With his mask? His killing uniform?

Steve hoped it was personal business. He couldn’t deal with four sets of claws when he already had a smear campaign on his plate. Bucky was still where he needed to be, and Thursday just became that much harder.

There was more still to come. All it took was a phone call to Tony, he got his hologram tech back, and off he went to the Parker residence.

Too bad he didn’t get that far. Dum-Dum buzzed ten minutes into his journey, and he had to wait three stops before he could get off and switch trains that would take him to the stop nearest Lenox Hill.

Harry Osborn’s release party took up most of the lobby of the hospital. Well-wishes and cheers followed the youth as he slowly walked from the elevator and through the lobby with the aid of his father’s secretary and Mary Jane Watson. Steve saw that he was smiling, but it wasn’t the kind of smile you pulled off to someone you cared about. It was fickle, like cheap plastic, and Steve knew exactly why. Peter was no where to be found. He was pretty sure even Mary Jane Watson and Osborn senior’s secretary were aware of the act Harry Osborn was effortlessly pulling off, despite the bumps, stitches, and bruises.

What Steve did not expect, however, was Spider-Man perched outside the hospital, keenly looking down on Harry Osborn and companions’ procession into the limo parked outside.

It provided good enough distraction. Before long, the students who were originally gushing over the injured Oscorp heir were now booing and hurling threats and curses at Spider-Man. Even the weakened Harry Osborn managed to raise his eyes up to the lone spider standing vigilant.

Steve thought he could feel Spider-Man’s pain when Harry sneered before entering the limo.

* * *

 

“Namor told me you weren’t getting enough sleep.”

“How does Namor even know that?”

“I don’t ask questions I don’t want answers to.”

Steve squeezed the pillow to his chest. “I miss you.”

“You need sleep.” Bucky deadpanned.

“It’s hard,” he admitted.

Bucky’s sigh was faint on the line, and Steve couldn’t help but feel like he’d failed.

* * *

 

There was a turning point in every situation. There had to be, or it wouldn’t be much of a situation to begin with. Fridays were normally for waking up late and catching up on some television before an evening shift at the Avengers tower. This time, however, Bucky was no where to be found, and Daken had torn through Norman Osborn’s penthouse and grabbed Harry Osborn right off the sofa he was glued to.

So clearly, this particular Friday was less of a Friday, and more of moment in time where the situation shifted. At least now he knew why Bone Claws was here instead of Los Angeles or Madripoor, and why dear old dad was on his tail. All Steve had to do was find out what the contract had offered Daken and just double the reward so the mutant could hand Harry Osborn to him instead. Logan wouldn’t even have to leave his shit-hole of an apartment.

Unfortunately, Spider-Man wasn’t aware of these details, and that proved to be Steve’s shortcoming. Bucky would be preparing divorce papers if he found out Steve had been this careless.

It took sixteen minutes for the news of the kidnapping to go viral. It took about eight minutes after Peter Parker’s phone pinged with a message from Mary Jane Watson for Spider-Man to take to the rooftops and begin hunting for his prey.

It took about three minutes for Steve to put on his uniform and grab his shield before jumping off his balcony and onto the crowded streets of Brooklyn.

* * *

 

You would think he’d smile at least once during the fight, maybe as a gesture of forgiveness, or perhaps a way to acknowledge the past they’d shared. But the man who once so thoroughly defended him from his tormentors, defended him to a temporary death, saved him as a helicarrier went down in all its fiery glory- he didn’t bat an eyelash.

The James Buchanan Barnes of long ago, friendly and mischievous, would have cursed him as he fought, a smile playing on his worn lips, struggling to hold back his mirth. That day’s Bucky Barnes merely huffed and punched one Octobot after another, harder and quicker and much more efficiently that Steve could ever hope to do so, effectively destroying anything and everything. Daken watched from the shadows while Harry Osborn hung limply by his ankle under the flimsy care of brittle rope.

Steve felt the fist dig into his left eye. He blinked once, and found Daken grinning madly, his form as graceless and deliberate as an animal left to gnaw at its own leg due to forced starvation.

He wondered about the many things the man had been deprived of. Three claws found themselves buried deeply in his stomach, and he closed his eyes, wondering what would have happened if Bucky had never remembered.

* * *

 

“My name is Peter Parker.”

* * *

 

“I’d let you have him if it were any other week. Unfortunately, my boyfriend tried to kill me again a couple of days ago, so we had to take separate vacations. I do support the gesture, however. It’s sappy. Laura’s the type to secretly write fanfiction but never post her writing, so really, if it were any other day, I’d gladly hand him over. For the sake of love. Laura likes writing about love. Funny, considering neither she nor I can actually participate in it.”

Spid- Peter. His mask was in shreds, courtesy of three very bewitching and equally bestial, black claws. Captain America was down. Harry was still hanging from a piece of rope, unconscious and unknowing.

“I won’t lie.” Daken threaded his gloved fingers through his dark mane, inky black tresses cascading down one side of his partly shaved head and down to his shoulder, displaying a gore-ridden parody of a GQ model with the added extras of torn battle garb and beguiling tattoos. His mask was tossed somewhere behind him while the Wolverine howled below as Octobots continued to subdue him. He smiled pleasantly at Peter, as if he’d known him for years. “You’re cute.”

Peter had learned well not to let careless battle flirtations get in his way of getting his job done. Normally, he’d have an equally ribald yet scathing comment ready. He had to agree in some aspects however. Had it been any other day, any other person besides Harry, MJ, or Aunt May, he’d have struck back with something partially witty, laughed, yelped like a wounded animal, and maybe slightly peed his pants out of the fear that always managed to crawl out of the crevices of his mind during inopportune moments.

“And I hate killing the cute ones,” the proposed warlord admitted listlessly. “I didn’t kill Captain America, so obviously, I won’t be killing you.”

“You wouldn’t be breathing if you did.” James Barnes grunted from behind, pistol poised behind Daken’s head, but Peter had a feeling this was precisely how it was supposed end up. Him without his mask, his dignity, and Harry still hanging half-head from a piece of rope ready to give out. Captain and Wolverine subdued, James Barnes back from his conference a few days earlier, the Avengers and his team no where to be found because Daken willed them not to be found.

“Let the kid go, and I’ll try and leave something for your father to bury,” Barnes promised, his words laced with unbridled hatred and fatigue.

“The funniest thing is, I was just supposed to pick-and-drop.” Daken began to drawl as if Barnes wasn’t behind him, as if Harry wasn’t minutes away from falling to his death. “But you, Mr. Cutie McCutiepants, you sniffed out the coordinates faster than my old man, and you’re supposed to be a  _spider_. Not that I didn’t think there would be some complications because of my flagrant kidnapping methods, but really. I’m shocked. And worse? You’re the ex-bff! The guy who dumped his best friend for a bunch of state wards! Now I’m thinking the blonde, the brains, the brawn, and the joker are the rest of your ragtag superhero group. And one of them even turned out to be a billion dollar heir. Did you know Rand Industries dabbles in weapons manufacturing? I should know; I’ve done security detail for them. As for why I can’t seem to shut up, I’ll have you know that I’ve taken at least fourteen heat pills in the last forty-eight hours, and that I’ll most likely drop into a coma again sooner rather than later. As to why I have my claws at your throat, it’s because I think you’re cute, but I’m still genuinely perturbed with my boyfriend.”

Peter stiffened as the claw protruding from Daken’s wrist inched closer to his Adam’s apple.

“So you see, Peter Parker.” Daken rasped because the drugs were overtaking his system, because he’d lost his mind again. “I can’t let you save the Oscorp heir apparent because it irks me. Johnny didn’t save me. Johnny was in my dreams and even then he didn’t save me. He wasn’t real.”

“Put them away, Akihiro,” Barnes warned. “Let him go. Let him save his friend.”

“Johnny could never love me.”

Peter found that his eyes were sad. Insanity clouded the outer reaches of his personality, but the man was weeping inside. Peter had seen fresh tears spring from someone’s eyes not too long ago, but Daken Akihiro cried on the inside. He still smiled like they were old friends, like they were in seated in a park, sharing coffee and pastries over marital hassles and friendly gossip. They could have been, if Daken hadn’t lost his mind.

“His name is Harry Osborn, and he’s my best friend. Everyone loves him. I love Harry.”

Daken cocked his head to the side. “Does he love you?”

Peter breathed easily, as if bone claws weren’t about to be buried in his throat. “Yes, he does. I’m his best friend.”

The clawed mutant burst into a fit of laughter, one that had Barnes steady his hold on the pistol. The claws never budged from Peter’s throat. “No,  _silly_.” Daken himself inched closer, and along with him came Barnes’s pistol. The Wolverine had quieted down, the low whirring of broken Oco-machinery nonexistent in the company of Daken’s metaphorical wolves.

“Does he  _love_ , love you?”

“Yes.” And Peter believed it.

“So If he fell, you’d try and catch him?”

“Even if you tore my throat out.”

“That’s enough! Put away the claws, and I’ll let you live!”

Barnes’s words go unnoticed to Daken. “But what if you can’t? What if he keeps falling?”

Peter imagined a world without his friends and his family. He imagined a world with Aunt May gone. Uncle Ben had already taken his leave. What would there be left for him then?

“He won’t, because I’ll catch him. I’m sorry Johnny wasn’t there for you, but it’s not his fault, and it’s not yours either. Things happen because they’re meant to. My uncle is dead, but Harry’s not. I couldn’t do anything for my uncle, but I can do something for Harry. You can tear my throat out, but I’ll still catch him. I can promise you that much.”

Daken retracted his claws slowly, only to bare them once more. He’d only been able to dig the claws an inch or so into Peter’s throat before Barnes’s bullet caught him in the back of his neck. The former sergeant quickly moved to restrain him with StarkTech bonds, knowing fully well that an adimantium bullet wouldn’t put him down for long. Peter was already swinging towards his friend by the time the bonds fully latched on on.

Curses and laughter drifted in and out of focus as the sun went down. Peter ran, blood flowing freely from his throat, as the rope snapped and Harry fell.

* * *

 

“Spider-Man?”

“Spider-Man is dead.”

* * *

 

The stab wounds throbbed beneath the bandages, but at least it was Sunday afternoon and Clint was back from the Bahamas. He’d brought back gifts. Steve had a colorful, patchwork throw strewn over his legs, above the garish blue of the hospital sheets. Bucky was asleep on a chair, clasping his right hand.

“Ben Urich wrote that Spider-Man died trying to save an innocent, but this morning, two kids claimed they saw him jumping from rooftop to rooftop in the Bowery.” Clints hummed into his coffee, quiet enough that Bucky wouldn’t be disturbed, but loud enough that Steve wouldn’t have to strain himself to listen.

“He should be resting.” Steve let his right thumb weakly drift over the rough stubble of Bucky’s cheek.

Clint shrugged lazily, seemingly becoming one with his hospital chair. “Surgery was successful, so all he needs to do is not talk for a couple of weeks, and he’ll be back to annoying the hell out of everyone before the month runs out. I wouldn’t worry my pretty little head if I were you.”

Steve rolled his eyes, cracking a smile in the process. “And Mr. Osborn?”

“Senior is still in S.H.I.E.L.D custody, but junior’s camped out at the Parker residence. Spider-Man’s on the backburner for him, despite his alleged death. ”

Steve quirked the eyebrow that wasn’t part of the side of his face that was still purple in some parts and ghastly yellow in others. “What was S.H.I.E.L.D’s cover?”

“Mugging,” Clint sighed. “The aunt fainted, had a mini-breakdown. Didn’t even question why a pocket-thief would willingly try and massacre someone’s throat, only that it couldn’t happen again. Her husband was killed during a mugging, according to the files.”

“Benjamin Parker,” Steve whispered.

“Go home, Hawkeye.”

It was an order, even though Barnes was supposed to be asleep. But then again, mechanics didn’t normally tell assassins to scram. Yet, it was James Barnes that did the grunting, so Clint muttered a faint goodbye, and climbed out the window with his watered down coffee in tow.

“That was rude.” Steve chastised.

“I was gone for eleven days to buy car parts, and you managed to get yourself punched and stabbed on the day I come back. I’d go on, but I’m tired, and you’re still a punk.”

Steve pouted, but Bucky merely grunted in response before slipping back to sleep. Steve let his released hand rest atop the older man’s shoulder.

He understood why Peter was hiding.

* * *

 

“We haven’t introduced ourselves to each other yet. My name is Steve Rogers.”

Peter Parker was dressed in jeans and a sweater. It was a turtleneck sweater, specifically, and it covered the bandages still wrapped loosely around his throat, but at least he could speak now.

The younger man didn’t take Steve’s outstretched hand and instead turned away from him. It would have been disrespectful in anyone else’s eyes, but Bucky would have laughed if he’d seen it happen. Bucky would have told him he deserved it for trifling in another person’s private business, especially when it was the only request.

Steve guiltily scratched his head and went to stand next to the young man gazing forlornly at the East River. It was one of those rare afternoons where the murky filth forced to reside in the water didn’t peek out from beneath the waves. The water glistened with the sunlight, but the chilliness didn’t recede. The wind picked up. The water lapped at the docks. Steve sighed.

“I’m sorry.” It was a weak effort, but then again, Steve was never really good at being sorry about things. He could have spent the day punching bags or guiltily shoving pastries in his mouth across from Namor, the Atlantean sassing him left and right while Bavarian cream filled his mouth and hot, sweetened coffee warmed his stomach. Instead, he was standing in front of a glistening body of water, surrounded by the vague smell of sewage emanating from its most discreet corners. Steve realized he had a lot to be sorry about.

“I should go.” Peter Parker rasped as if he’d avoided opening his mouth altogether since the surgery. His eyes looked down, down to the concrete beneath their feet, the harshness of the brickwork, all the way down. Steve knew that if he’d raised his eyes, he’d look right through Steve, right into his soul, or whatever was left of it. He wasn’t the man he used to be. He knew that much.

“I should have respected your boundaries.” Steve remembered that he should have done more, done things that could have saved Bucky earlier, done things that could have prevented endless amounts of pain. Peter Parker raised his eyes.

His eyes had a greenish tint to them today, but Steve knew that at times, they could be darker. Once, not too long ago, Bucky’s eyes had been dead, had been bland and brown, had been indistinguishable from other eyes, other gazes. Peter’s eyes were normally a darkish hazel, mellow and cool. Not too long ago, they were a stormy, dark brown that berated a friend, that spelled consequences, that deemed the world unfair and uncouth. Today, they were dead. Indistinguishable from the countless other gazes littering the streets near the waterfront, Peter Parker’s eyes were dead.

“Itwasmyfault.”

Somewhere, probably in his and Jim’s shared garage, Bucky was laughing. He was probably changing someone’s oil, or maybe at the cash register, or maybe even in the midst of a nap. Either way, Bucky was laughing, and if he wasn’t, he would when Steve got home. It wasn’t Bucky who’d forgotten to inform Spider-Man of his ultra-savvy, businessman plan to get a delirious and drugged Daken to release Harry Osborn into his custody, and it certainly wasn’t Bucky who’d had his shield kicked away from him and then had himself incapacitated in less than ten minutes.

Bucky managed with a revolver, two pistols, a hunting knife, and a woolen parka he’d bought on sale from Walmart. He could hear Namor’s stiff, posh voice lecturing him on the ethics of being properly prepared for battle, and as per usual, Steve would say nothing about the Atlantean’s lack of clothes.

“It’s not.” Steve could swear the young man’s lips hardly moved, yet his eyes spoke volumes. And by volumes, Steve meant nothing. There was nothing.

“Bucky found himself,” he began. He began, and he didn’t stop.

“Bucky found himself. It took three years. We had a robot attack in New York the year after he escaped Hydra. It was Tony’s fault, sorta. Maybe. About halfway, and the rest was Hank’s fault. Pym, not McCoy, but it was on the news, and I know you were probably too young to pay attention, but it was all there. I was shot by a round of robo-snipers once, and I’m pretty sure I was dead, but I wasn’t. There was someone in that building a hundred yards away, and he or she had saved my life. I never saw that person until I needed to.”

“Two years after the helicarrier went down over the Potomac, Sam and I helped Thor depose his brother. Loki was de-aged afterwards, then disappeared, then came back with a boyfriend who happened to be an X-Man. They’re still together, him and Quentin Quire. Funny I tell you that, because Quentin was kidnapped during that year, and everything was going to shit until someone dropped him off in front of Jane Foster’s condo in Las Vegas. It was a funny story up until the point where we couldn’t figure out who would do us that kind of a favor.”

“Three years after Nick went into hiding, Sam married Sharon and I said goodbye to Washington. I moved to France for a little bit. I knew the language, so I enrolled in an art school, let the facial recognition thingies build me a cover, and lived quietly for a few months. By then, I had passed the big three-and-o, and I could only get older. I was still taking S.H.I.E.L.D missions, keeping in touch with Sam, sending letters back and forth with Thor. I met Jim in a small town near Alsace and Lorraine. He’s an android, you know, but Namor doesn’t care. I remember Namor from the war. I remember Jim too, but he was in a glass tube at Stark Expo when I first saw him. I remember Namor fighting with us from afar. I never really had a chance to speak with them then, but some time in a small art school, and a cottage in the middle of no where, you get time. You get time, and you tell stories. Namor knew someone from the war. He knew someone I knew. Jim? Jim knew everything.”

“Namor married Jim in my yard, and mind you, I had a pretty big yard. There were about fifty people in attendance, mostly X-Men and a few surviving veterans Jim still spoke to. They left for New York the week after, but I stayed. I would have stayed. Wouldn’t you, if you knew that no matter how hard you tried to love others and find a reason to keep living, you just couldn’t do it anymore? I wasn’t about to put a bullet in my head, but I was about to mess with my uniform, maybe forget to fasten a few buttons, shirk on few layers of Kevlar. I could always go into battle without a knife, a gun, my shield. I already passed on the guns, but I used to keep a knife during the war, but somewhere in between aliens and a backyard wedding in the French country, I didn’t have any weapons to speak of, and my knuckles were bruised, and there were trashbags full of punching bags in the garbage disposal section of my neighborhood.”

“My mom died. I think I died a little, too. Then Dr. Erskine died, Bucky died, I died. Then I came back, Peggy kept forgetting me, and Howard was gone. Bucky was still dead. I tried dying again, and I probably should have, but I didn’t. I was hoping I would, you know, all poetic with the water and whatnot, but it wasn’t the Arctic this time. I should have died- but I didn’t.”

“But you came back,” Peter blurted out. “I was ten. I saw the news.”

The wind rustled the sleeves of Steve’s jacket. “He left me my dogtags. I had lost them in the Arctic, but he found them, and he left them in an envelope addressed in my name. It’s not often someone besides the couple receives a gift at the wedding. They were faded, cold to the touch, but they were mine. And I knew it was him.”

“Why are you telling me this, Captain Rogers?” Peter Parker’s hands were stuffed in his sweater pockets, and finally, Steve saw inklings of tiredness begin to creep into the crevices of the younger mans eyes. He should be home, but he wasn’t. Harry Osborn had returned to his father’s restored penthouse, and Norman Osborn was still chained in a cage he wasn’t leaving any time soon.

“I’m bad at explaining things, and I can’t really apologize properly, so I go off on tangents. But I think you’re in love with Harry Osborn, and it’s killing you, Peter.”

It still took three months before Steve could muster up the courage to sell the cottage and land, before returning to New York. Even then, he’d stayed at Jim and Namor’s before he got a place upstate. Not Brooklyn. Never Brooklyn.

“Of course I love Harry,” Peter Parker murmured, eyes dropping once more. “Everyone loves Harry.”

“Not everyone goes on suicide missions, Peter. I know I have no right to tell you how to live your life, but one day, when you’re both old and without anyone to love you for who you are, you’ll wonder how you could have ever decided to go down this path. I know it seems like responsibility right now, but you’re first priority is you, Peter, not the world. Harry is an extension of you, and anyone with two eyes and a brain can figure that out. But this isn’t how to do it. At least-”

He was sketching apple trees in an orchard the evening Bucky came back. It had been six years since.

“At least Harry can see you.” Steve’s fought tears for half his life. They were still a symbol of his weakness- of his failures.

“He thinks I killed his father.”

“He thought I was his mission.”

A phone began to ring, and Steve knew it wasn’t his. Peter didn’t pick up, but a cue was a cue, and Steve never missed his. Peter Parker turned back around to stare at the water, and Steve walked away. The wind bit into his face, and he remembered the feeling of cold metal fingers on his left cheek the night Bucky came to him under an apple tree.

* * *

 

“You’re moping.”

“I am not moping.”

“You’re moping, and we have company.”

“Sam understands.”

“You say he’s not your kid, but you act like he’s your kid.”

“Well, maybe if we’d taken in a child, I wouldn’t be like this, now would I?”

“Yes, let us drop by Frost’s academy and see if we can take in a mutant orphan and tell him or her to try and live up to Captain Dad’s name.”

“And Sergeant Papa.”

“Get your act together before Natasha asks questions. I don’t want her asking questions. She’ll tell Clint, and he’ll tell the world. We’ll never be able to live it down.”

* * *

 

“Your name is Harry Osborn. Mine is Peter Parker.”

“Peter?”

And that was the story of how they fell in love.

* * *

 

Steve didn’t normally brag, but when he did, the smug smile and puffed out chest were just the beginning. Bucky rolled his eyes. He’d shaved, gelled his dark brown locks, and neatly combed everything into place. They were technically supposed to be enjoying a fancy lunch, but Steve had seen Peter milling around the hotdog stand near the Osborn penthouse and wanted to say hello. They never got around to it because Harry Osborn ran out of the building in a frenzy a few seconds later and engulfed Peter in a bone-crushing hug. A small kiss followed, and Steve found himself bursting with laughter. They locked hands and walked away. Bucky rolled his eyes, and led Steve towards the taco place a block away, to hell with fine dining.

* * *

 

“Is that Parker? And Osborn? Parker  _and_  Osborn?”

“I see the two halves have finally become one. I will congratulate Peter once Harry detaches himself from his person.”

“Uh, I don’t think that’s happening any time soon. I think they’re about to suck on each other’s faces. We should probably go do our homework. That should be enough brain bleach for today.”

Luke crossed his hands across his chest. “I have a date.” Sam shrugged and left with Ava for the library, while Danny went off for a soda with Mary Jane. When Jessica Jones came around the corner, Luke took her hand and they took their leave.

* * *

“He had the craziest eyes and this wicked, orangey costume. I can totally believe he’s Wolverine’s son. My dad would have gotten his stylist to give him a free consultation, because those colors did nothing for him. Absolutely nothing at all.”

Peter carded his fingers through dark red hair pressed against his chest. “You’ve worn light green sweater vests to school,” he pointed out.

“Yeah, but they matched my jeans,” the taller teen alleged.

“But you wear blue or black. They match with everything.”

“Says the guy who wears an open lavender button down over a tank top.”

Peter laughed, painting the air with white fog. Harry huffed and kept his head plastered on Peter’s chest while the few remaining birds fluttered over the night sky.

“You wanna go for a spin?” He asked a little while later.

“It’s too cold.” Harry’s grasp on Peter’s waist became firmer.

“I can take you home,” he suggested, eyes still gazing at the city lights pretending to be stars.

“… nah.”

If anyone asked, they were on Aunt May’s couch, asleep in each other’s arms, both wrapped in oversized sweaters and barely able to fit on the medium-sized piece of furniture.

Those who knew better didn’t say anything about a web some hundred or so feet in the air, fastened with heavy duty webbing, and softened by maybe three or four quilts. Those who knew better didn’t notice a flustered Harry Osborn with two sweaters and a scarf around his neck.

And of course, no one saw Peter Parker holding said Harry Osborn while they fell asleep. Probably not the most ideal weather for a nap outside, but Harry couldn’t complain when his face was red and warm against Peter’s chest.

And Peter? He allowed his arms to circle around the taller man who’d fallen asleep on his chest, and let his heart do the talking.

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> I will never be ashamed of writing Namor and Jim into my fics. Never.


End file.
